


To Be in Antiva

by HeroMaggie



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Wet Wardens are Wet, Wynne has the worst cold remedies, Zevran has a cold
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2018-03-17 11:43:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3528152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeroMaggie/pseuds/HeroMaggie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A rainy day at camp while on the hunt for the Dalish turns into a quiet moment for Zevran and Eavan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Be in Antiva

The day, Eavan thought, was no worse than any other day. Other than the incessant rains, boggy mud, copious amounts of trees, and the fact that everybody had a sniffle, it was a normal day for the Blight. She was out looking for somebody to talk to about these blasted treaties, and the people she needed to talk to were either unavailable or in hiding.

It had been so much easier with the Dwarves. They had been stuck under all that stone and unable to run from her. Granted, by the time she got Bhelen on the throne he had been trying to bribe her to leave Orzammar. Ahh, she remembered that with deep fondness. It was how they had gotten such a large selection of runes to put towards their armies. And the generous lyrium agreements to supply her mage contingent.

Her mage contingent, the very thought made her lips purse in annoyance.

As frustrating as the Dwarves had been, they were infinitely better than the elves – who seemed to have disappeared into the Brecilian forest. And if she ever found these Dalish clans she may just set their tents...aravels...whatever...on fire on sheer principle.

A loud sneeze followed by a hacking cough had her wincing and glancing across their soggy camp.

Zevran sat huddled under blankets, head barely visible above the sodden cloth. His blond hair was lank from the drizzle, his nose was red, and his cough congested. Wynne hovered over him, a motherly figure that seemed intent on forcing him to drink some vile concoction she swore would help the cold.

Eavan could attest to the vileness of the brew – she had been laid up three days earlier with the same thing and Wynne had poured the tarry substance down her throat at least four times a day. It was viscous and tasted, oddly enough, of fish. Wynne had sworn that there were no fish-substances in the medicine, but to Eavan it tasted decidedly...fishy.

Another sneeze followed by a spate of cranky Antivan had Wynne huffing and stalking away to her tent. Eavan rolled her eyes up to the swollen black clouds and grinned at her friend's antics. The Antivan didn't stop. Neither did Wynne's muttering.

A glance around the camp showed it was just her and Zevran braving the drizzle. Morrigan was tucked into her tent, the shadows of potion bottles and books visible through the oiled canvas. Alistair had eaten an entire wheel of cheese out of boredom and had fallen asleep in their tent. Leilana was humming quietly from her tent and Sten well...Sten was out patrolling.

Maker bless that man and his anal-retentive need to march in circles.

With Wynne gone, Eavan took the opportunity to stand and make her way across camp, stepping around puddles and trying to keep from falling in the mud. Finally, she dropped down next to Zevran and gave a heartfelt sigh.

“My Dove, you should not sit so close to me...ahh...ahh...”Zevran inhaled, stilled, and then exhaled. “I am sick.”

“Mm, I had that a few days ago. Does that potion Wynne is forcing on you taste like fish?” Eavan kept her eyes on the empty fire pit.

“Now that you mention it, it does taste a little...fishy.” Zevran made a sound of discontent followed by a sneeze. “Ahh, what I wouldn't give to be in Antiva City with the sun shining and the Crows dancing...”

“Mm...and the leather...” Eavan piped in before he could finish.

“Ah Dove, you know me so well,” Zevran's voice rasped. “Ferelden is so...wet. And smells of mud and dogs. It is no wonder I caught this sniffle.”

“You need to get out of the rain,” Eavan prodded.

“And do what? I would be bored. Sitting here gives Wynne something to do, yes? She sees me sneezing and she comes to fuss. Tonight I shall curl up in bed and rub a tincture on my chest. It is good for covering bad smells and opening sinuses.” Zevran bumped Eavan's shoulder. “Smells of cloves.”

“Why don't we go sit in your tent and talk? I'm drenched and Alistair is snoring in ours. I'm bored and you're sneezing.” Eavan poked his shoulder. “You can rub this tincture on yourself and feel better.”

“Hmm,” Zevran gave it a thought, “A beautiful woman in my tent or sitting in the rain. Decisions, decisions.”

Eavan stood and walked to Zevran's tent, not even waiting for him. “If you don't come with me I'm just going to rifle through your belongs. I'll throw your expensive silk smalls in the mud. I'll horrify the camp with your teddy bear.”

“I do not have a...” Zevran laughed, the laugh devolving into a cough, “Does Alistair have a teddy bear?”

Eavan glanced over at Zevran as she opened his tent, “Of course not, and don't be ridiculous. I bought him a little wooden warden and horse. ”

***

  
Unlike Eavan's tent, which smelled like armor polish and cheese, Zevran's tent smelled like leather and something musky – a combination of oils and lotions that she knew her Antivan friend liked to keep around. She had dropped her sodden cloak and was busy pulling out one of his dry shirts when he finally crawled in.

“Wearing my clothing now? Are we so close?” Zevran teased.

“Mm...after all we've been through I'd say so,” Eavan muttered as she threw her wet tunic at him. “Stop oogling me. You've seen it.”

“Indeed, Dove, though only when you have been injured. And that one delightful time I found you bathing,” Zevran's face grew rapturous. Eavan threw her boots at him too, hitting him on the side of the head with one. “You are, as always, full of grace.”

“And you're full of shit, but that's to be expected.” Wiggling into the dry shirt, Eavan finally settled on the blankets and sighed. “Ahh, we probably have a few hours. Alistair ate that whole wheel of cheddar. He'll be asleep most of the day.”

“Your lover is...” Zevran started.

“Shut up,” Eavan advised.

“Charming. I was going to say charming.” Was the response, punctuated by a phlegmy laugh. “Now where is my tincture. And could you pull me out a shirt as well?”

Eavan busied herself with finding another shirt and trying to make room for all of their wet clothing, finally piling it into a mound near the tent entrance. Zevran settled next to her in now-dry pants, chest bare. He waved a small jar at her and then uncorked it. The smell of cloves and honey filled the tent.

“Ahh,” he exhaled, scooping out a small amount to rub over his chest. “Unless you wish to?”

“Sweet Maker,” Eavan murmured. “Fine, give me that. I'll indulge you this once.”

“Mm...just the once then?” The smack against his back made Zevran laugh. “Ah Eavan, if you had met me first...”

“We'd have killed each other within a week and you know it.” She concentrated on smoothing the waxy salve into his skin. Quiet reigned as she worked, Zevran watching her hands and Eavan humming softly, clucking when she smoothed over scars.

“Zev,” Eavan's voice was soft. “Tell me a story.”

“Troubles crowding your mind, Dove?” Understanding filled his voice.

“Always,” she whispered. “Always when it's quiet and you or Alistair aren't there to distract them away.”

Strong hands grabbed hers, “Lie with me and we will rest. The troubles? They will go away.”

“I should...” Eavan pulled away, grabbing a wet tunic to wipe her hands on.

“You should stay where it is dry and warm and let me tell you a story. Alistair will not mind. He knows I would never abuse your trust. Stay and I will tell you about Antiva City and the sun.” Zevran pulled on his shirt, lying back on the covers.

Eavan waffled a moment before giving in, settling back against him. “Well, alright. One story. And then I should go wake Alistair up. The man shouldn't sleep all day.”

“One story,” Zevran agreed. “The streets of Antiva, how I would love to show them to you. The sun glinting off the blue waters of the bay and the wicked dance between noble houses that happens in the markets...”


End file.
